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SARISBURY COURT, HIGH TIDE IN THE ADVANCE OF THE “EUNIX. 







The Seige Of 

Salisbury Court 

Wkick Ckronicles tke Feat ol 

BASE HOSPITAL 40 

In Winning tke World. War. 


Bij EX-BUCK PVT. JOSIAH H. COMBS, 
Of Bate Hospital 40, A. E. F. 
Autkor of All Tkat’s Kentucky, Etc. 



“A duck! a duck! Mu Kingdom f of a duck!” 


. Uj8Eg 


TO 

My mother, always my inspiration and en¬ 
couragement. And 


To 

The members of Base Hospital 40, U. S. Army. 


Transferred from 
Copyright 0^';e 
TEC 5 m 


FEB -7 1924 


* 


( 2 ) 


“Wars are hellish business—all 
war ... I was in the midst of 
it all—saw war where war was 
worst—not on the battlefield, no— 
in the hospital, there war is worst; 
there I mixed with it, and now say; 
God damn the wars—all wars; God 
damn every war; God damn ’em; 
God damn ’em!” 


—Walt Whitman. 


LISTEN! 


Some folks would elect to call this a PREFACE, 
or FOREWORD. Anyway, listen! Once the wife of 
a former governor of New Hampshire wrote a book. 
This book was proudly advertised as being the first 
book ever written by the wife of a former governor 
of New Hampshire. A unique distinction, eh? Let 
some romancer arise to tell the story of the first 
book written on the Fourth Dimension by the first 
red-headed, cross-eyed nigger who wore the first 
rabbit’s foot from a rabbit shot by a hump-backed, 
red-headed, cross-eyed nigger by the light of the 
moon in a country grave-yard. Thus it is that one 
thing fetches up another—especially after a fly 
has been swallowed. The author of this little volume 
may or may not be the first member of Base 
Hospital 40 to chronicle a little record in prose and 
verse of the doings of that now celebrated outfit. He 
is “putting out” this thing out of respect to his 
“comrades-in-arms”—two hundred and fifty of them. 

The storm and stress of those days are gone. 
Civilization is saved, saved entirely by the efforts 
of the “Eunix.” “The devil’s in his hell, in the 
Army all’s well.” I studied out this paraphrase all 
by myself, thinking about something Browning said 
about God and His heaven. Most of us could have 
been put in jail for what we thought of the Army 
in those days; probably we have not even yet 
changed some of our opinions. As to myself, I rise 
to remark, I suppose I can forget it all—but I just 
can’t help thinking about it! Not all of our expe¬ 
riences were pleasant. There were dismal, gloomy 
days, when some of us felt a sort of “all-overishness,” 
akin to fatalism. You know, our feelings were 
closely related to those of a badly defeated candi- 


( 4 ) 



date; we were too big to cry, and felt too much hurt 
to laugh. 

With few exceptions, in Base Hospital 40, rela¬ 
tions between officers and enlisted men were splen¬ 
did. At the close of the war an English Tommy sent 
this terse “order” to a former officer; “Now that 
the war is over, I take this opportunity of telling you 
to go to hell.” The reply was forthcoming: “All 
orders relating to troop movements must come 
through military channels.” 

Yet, all-in-all, that was a jolly outfit—Base Hos¬ 
pital 40. The bon voyage was handed to us long ago 
by our Uncle, when he slipped that sixty “bucks” 
to us with our discharge—and bade us go forth and 
invest, compete, capitalize! Long live the sixty! 
long live the “Eunix”! 

NOTE. For the sake of the uninitiated, it is explained 
that “Eunix” means nothing more or less than “Units,” 
or members of Base Hospital, Unit 40. We are indebted to an 
old gentleman in Hie Bluegrass for this pronunciation, and 
for this sobriquet. 

—J. H. C. 

Hindman, Kentucky 


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CONTENTS 


LISTEN! 

THE SIEGE OF SARISBURY COURT 
WHAT THEY THINK OF HIM 
MEDICAL CORPS PRIMER 
LESSON I 
LESSON II 
FALL IN! 

LET IT LAY! 

O. D. 

THE OLD ARMY HOBNAIL 
AN HONEST SOLDIER 
THE NURSE BEHIND THE GUN 
THE SOLDIER’S BUNK 
CONFINED TO CAMP 
COME AND GIT IT! 

C. C. 

WALKING POST 
PASSING THE BUCK 
SOME BASE 40 SYLLOGISMS 

BALLADE OF Ye GOODE SHIPPE “MARMALADE” 

A BUCK’S REPLY TO GEORGE’S LETTER 

IN HAMPSHIRE FIELDS 

NETLEY ABBEY 

CROSSING TO THE BAR 

BEYIS OF HAMPTON VS. ASCUPART 

’AMBLE OVER THE 'AMBLE 

WHY IS A CASUAL? 

THE MEDICOS WON THE WAR 
PAT HARL'S LETTER 
“ ’BAN, ’BAN, CA-CALIBAN” 

HERE THEY ARE! 


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THE SIEGE OF SARISBURY COURT 


The germ of this memorable conflict had its origin 
in the summer of nineteen and seventeen, shortly 
after the United States declared war against the 
dark forces of Prussian militarism. The idea gradu¬ 
ally synchronised into what became known as Base 
Hospital 40, United States Army. Dr. David Barrow, 
of Lexington, was the founder and organizer of the 
Unit, which usually goes by the name of the Barrow 
Unit. Dr. Geo. H. Wilson, Lexington, Dr. Virgil E. 
Simpson, Louisville, Dr. W. S. Wyatt, Lexington, 
and Dr. Virgil G. Kinnaird, Lancaster, played a 
prominent part in the organization and its activities. 
This volunteer outfit of two hundred and twenty men 
and thirty officers, mostly Kentuckians, went into 
intensive and extensive training at Camp Zachary 
Taylor, Kentucky, March the first, nineteen eighteen. 
Millionaires, lawyers, parsons, clerks, authors, farm¬ 
ers, barbers, students, business men, hoboes, bone 
tossers, black-jack and stud poker artists, walking 
delegates, individuals with long records and short 
bank rolls—all specimens of the omnium gatherum 
of the social strata wore the hat cord of the Medical 
Corps in this outfit, which was later on to become 
the best hospital outfit in the A. E. F. 

After a time the outfit became a bunch of seasoned 
veterans. The fellows would sit calmly by and watch 
a “bird” “kick off,” and take right hold of him 
after his demise. Ward 6-B had no more terrors for 
them, nor the “Nut ward,” “Zip—” of “Ukulele 
Ward,” or any of the others. The term “duck” was 
forever and indelibly stamped in the memory of 
every mother’s son of us. Back in the early days of 
our apprenticeship, in March, a sick “bird” in one of 
the wards called for a “duck.” One of our sympa¬ 
thetic lads rushed back to the bunk that held the 
stricken man, took a look at him, and then went 
to one of the nurses: 

ORDERLY— Nurse, one of the men back there 
wants a duck. Ain’t he too sick to eat duck? 

NURSE—Why, boy, that’s not what he wants. 

Our braves had been sorely tried. We wondered 

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what induced us to leave our happy homes. Fast 
in his dreams one night, one Private Gray had bro¬ 
ken forth, “Well, boys, it looks like they're going 
to make hospital men out of us, in spite of our¬ 
selves!” The pressure became so hard that a whole 
bevy of our lads solemnly appeared before the De¬ 
tachment Commander and asked for a transfer to 
some other branch of the service. The “transfer” 
came in the shape of heavy K. P. duty for two 
weeks. During the last two weeks at Camp Taylor 
there had been heavy betting as to when the outfit 
would entrain for some port of embarkation. “La¬ 
trine dope” would rapidly mount above par, and as 
rapidly drop below par. Early in May, the sixth, a 
farewell ball had been given in the Seelbach Hotel 
Louisville, by the enlisted men, for the personnel of 
the Unit, and friends in the Bluegrass and Louisville. 
June the eighteenth the great day came, and the 
outfit entrained for Camp Mills, Long Island, reach¬ 
ing that camp the twentieth. All along the way to 
New York missives to the good people back home 
were dropped from the train. For two weeks here 
in Camp Mills we had a full-grown, juicy experience 
with Long Island wind and sand. The sand covered 
our Uncle’s equipment at every inspection, and blew 
into our messkits at every meal, in the open, on the 
ground. We lived in tents. By this time the dope- 
sheet was almost worn to pieces, but was still 
functioning. By July the Fourth it became intelli¬ 
gible. That day we packed. Early the following 
morning, about one o’clock, “All outside with your 
O. D. babies”! rang out along the company street. 
Troop movements during those days were shrouded 
in mystery and usually took place under cover of 
darkness. We hiked to the train, and were ferried 
over to Hoboken. 

This same day we were unfortunate enough to em¬ 
bark on “His Majesty’s Transport, ‘Scotian’,” a 
British boat; which we later re-christened H. M. S. 
“Marmalade.” Any member of Base 40 can tell you 
why the re-christening took place. As usual, we 
were herded together in the steerage. Our beds were 
hammocks, or “dream-sacks,” fastened to the ceiling 
so close together that every time a sleeper moved 
he agitated the whole line of dream-sacks. One night 

(S) 


a hobnail shoe which had been fastened to the ceiling 
suddenly was attracted to the center of gravity, 
dropped downward from its moorings, and landed 
squarely on the mouth of a sleeper below, on one of 
the mess tables. The dentist had an urgent call the 
following morning. Unfortunately the sleeper’s 
mouth was open when the hob fell. 

“Imperious Caesar dead and turned to clay, 

Might close a mouth to keep the hobs away!” 

Yes, our quarters were hot, close, stifling, and never 
free from a foul stench. At night we were not al¬ 
lowed to open the port-holes on account of enemy 
submarines. A hotel keeper would be lynched for 
“puttin’ out” the grub we lined up against on the 
good ship “Scotian.” By early morning, July sixth, 
we had begun a zig-zag across the Atlantic. There 
were from twelve to fifteen boats in our convoy. 
A hydroplane, an American cruiser and a few de¬ 
stroyers accompanied us. The second or third day 
out, all war craft but the cruiser returned. 

The voyage over, as far as U-boats were concerned, 
was uneventful. One of the first things that most of 
the outfit learned was that old Neptune’s domain 
is all that poets have claimed for it—deep, blue, 
briny and the rest. Every morning all were chased 
up to one of the upper decks, to remain from 7:30 
to 11:30. Always we wore life preservers, and went 
through boat drill daily. Setting-up exercise, on the 
upper deck, was the “prettiest thing in the world 
when done right.” Of course, our good chaps per¬ 
sisted in saying “upstirs” for “above,” and “floor” 
for “deck.” “Fore” and “aft,” “port” and “star¬ 
board” were as Sanscrit to our land birds. One night 
the commanding officer of the convoy discovered a 
light shining through an open port-hole. After a 
signal to our boat, one of our non-coms, came 
“downstairs” and blandly announced: “The officer 
commanding the fleet reports a port-hole open on the 
starboard side of the ‘Scotian’. ” “Wha’ chuh mean 
‘Starboard’? ” sang out one of our fine lads. An¬ 
other phenomenon worried our chaps, where do all 
these little birds roost, lay eggs and hatch, out there 
on the face of the broad expanse? 


( 9 ) 


We were zig-zagging right along, and setting our 
wrist watches up twenty minutes every day; a sure 
sign that we were not on a dry land express. One 
day the weather would be fine and bright, the 
next, cold, cloudy, misty. Understand, we were 
“ploughing the whale-road,” but only occasionally 
did we touch the old trade route. The fourth day out, 
or July ninth, we bolted into a school of whales. 
Their baggage was checked for the Arctic clime. 
Spouts of water were shooting from their massive 
heads high into the air. Some of our fellows thought 
they were Hun submarines, and that the spouts 
of water were gasoline escaping from below. About 
mid-ocean we began to steam to the northward, and 
the weather became very cold. But—the very day 
the whales crossed our path we had our first real 
excitement. “One day we descried some shapeless 
object floating at a distance.” “A sub!” The gunners 
on some of the boats opened fire on it. Our good 
ship “Marmalade” shook from the roaring of the 
10-inch gun on its aft deck. At the noise and con¬ 
fusion two of our heroes, Prichard and Brackett, on 
bunk fatigue down below, piled out of their ham¬ 
mocks and rushed wildly above, crying out, “Just as 
I expected, a submarine!” Now we were in for some 
adventure. But no, child, our sub. was only a big, 
wooden box out there! Some of the glamor of bloody 
war had thus vanished from us. 

We still had the plucky American cruiser with us. 
One day some of the fellows observed that it was 
describing a circle around the fleet. As usual, there 
was much conjjecture as to the purpose of its ma¬ 
neuvers. Pvt. Tucker solved the mystery: “Guess 
she’s checkin’ up boys.” Pretty soon we reached the 
danger zone, the real submarine zone, in British 
waters. Right down by the Hebrides Islands we 
came, and the west coast of Scotland. For the first 
time on board, a talking machine was suddenly un¬ 
earthed. A record was put on, and the first dismal 
words we caught were: “I’m sad and lonely, nobody 

cares for me.” A mighty howl rent the sides of the 
“Scotian.” 

Now we had reached the Firth of Clyde, and 
could see the rugged coasts of Caledonia and Erin. 


( 10 ) 


Here all the boats but three steamed southward to¬ 
ward Liverpool. Three were towed up the Clyde River 
Picturesque Scotland! No wonder Burns and the rest 
went into raptures. Old castles on the banks, almost 
hidden by trees. Mountains were towering in the 
distance. At times we were near enough to the river 
banks to greet the Scotch people, and in turn be 
greeted by them. They cheered us wildly along 
the way. One sandy-haired old Scot yelled out, 
"‘That’s the stuff that’ll git ’em!” We saw bonnie 
Scotch lassies dancing the Highland fling along the 
banks. All this was kept up for about twenty miles, 
till we reached Glasgow, the second largest city 
in the British Isles. Our transports put in at 
Glasgow late in the afternoon of July seventeenth. 
We stayed on board that night. Of course, our 
officers were very anxious that we debark and “take 
in” Glasgow, but no, we decided to remain on board! 

At this point we had out first “casualty.” “Dock” 
Wiley got sick, and was sent to a hospital in Glasgow. 
The following day, July eighteenth, we debarked, 
and lined up at the pier. Here each of us was 
presented with a letter from His Britannic Majesty, 
George Y, King of Great Britain and Ireland, and 
Emperor of India. Here is the message George 
sent to us by his legates: — 


A MESSAGE TO YOU FROM HIS MAJESTY KING 
GEORGE VTH., WINDSOR CASTLE. 

Soldiers of the United States, the people of 
the British Isles welcome you on your way to 
take your stand beside the Armies of many 
Nations now fighting in the Old World the 
great battle for human freedom. 

The Allies will gain new heart & spirit in 
your company. I wish that I could shake the 
hand of each one of you & bid you God speed 
on your mission. 

George R. I. 

April 1918. 


(ID 


• a 


Later an English Tommy explained to some of our 
inquisitive chaps that “R. I.” (Rex Imperator) meant 
“Royal ’Ighness.” 

George is a regular fellow, and had not forgotten 
us! Some of the fellows began to compare their let¬ 
ters, to see if they were all alike. One observant 
chap quickly discovered that George had forgotten 
to address the envelope to him! And some of the 
fellows were “rawther” ungrateful, “don’t you know,’* 
for they forgot to answer this letter from His Bri¬ 
tannic Majesty. 

Soon we were hurried into a troop train. We were 
crowded into tight little compartments or “carriages,’* 
not “coaches,” for “huit chevaux ou quarante 
hommes,” and were bounding southward through the 
“tight little Isle.” For France? We shall see. Just 
over the Scotch-English border, at Carlisle, England, 
we were served hot coffee by the English Red Cross* 
Here a ripple of laughter broke out, when an English¬ 
man walked up and asked us if we were snake 
charmers! So much for the Caduceus insignia on our 
blouse collars! 

About July nineteenth, the outfit found itself on 
bunk-fatigue at a place which Army authorities po¬ 
litely designate as “rest” camp, at Southampton, 
England. (Probably “rest,” because it was surcease 
from the stale codfish, cheese and marmalade com¬ 
mon to the “Scotian”). At this place a sharp con 
flict, lasting five days, took place. After a fierce 
charge the doughty Kentuckians, led by Col. Leonard 
Hughes, took all objectives—including English rain, 
floors for bunks, boiled spuds, mutton, cheese, Eng¬ 
lish ale, English tobacco; and were paid off in £.s.d., 
including such things are “tup-pence,” “threp-pence,” 
“ha-penny,” and “three ha-pence.” The “tanner,” 
“bob,” “quid” and “wrapper” were yet beyond us* 
This engagement offered our brave iads the first 
opportunity to give the gas mask the “once over,” in 
action, against the deadly fumes of English smoking 
tobacco. 

We suffered some casualties, Sgt. Graves was hit 
IN THE BACK by a stray bullet, while gallantly 
urging the men to fall back. Good strategy, Sergeant, 


(12) 


good strategy: Advance by retreating, retreat by 
advancing!! Pvt. Rush, heavily gassed; Pvt. Jack 
Rogers, foundered on mutton and cheese; Cpl. 
Leedy’s helmet badly battered by boiled spuds; Sgt. 
Poushee overcome by the English damsels; Pvt. 
Jo Kuhn laughed himself to death from laughing 
gas, and Pvt. Fahey was found exhausted in a barrel 
of ale. We also suffered heavy casualties at the 
“pubs” and canteens. 

The day of July twenty-third broke with heavy 
rains,—not unlike the conditions incident to the Bat¬ 
tle of Waterloo. The previous night our lads ate 
little and slept but lightly. All hope of going across 
the Channel had vanished, like a ray of sunshine 
in England. The “zero hour” on a new front was 
fast approaching. But none of us knew what part 
of the English front we were going to attack. We 
only knew that we had reached that part of France 
known as England. Suddenly, precisely at 1:30 p. 
m., “Fall in with your packs!” rang out along the 
entire company street. The “big push” had begun! 
Across the Channel? No. “Squads right, march!” 
Straight through Southampton and beyond the pier, 
and, at the city limits, a bridge. All hope of seeing 
France gone! Beyond this bridge lies—a part of 
rustic England. In the Army, during the stress of 
war the officers get chummy with the enlisted men, 
tell them where they are going, when they are to 
leave, and when they are to reach their objectives. 
“Soldiers! beyond you lie Sarisbury Green and 
Sarisbury Court! ‘In Hampshire fields the lassies 
grow, and spot the Sammies row on row!’ Up, my 
braves, and at ’em!” One long look across that 
bridge, ladies and gentlemen, and, “Forward, march!” 
—into rural England. The Siege was truly in its in- 
cipiency—and heightened by an Incompetent non- 
com. and an officer, who showed remarkable facility 
at not knowing how to hike men heavily laden 
with impedimenta, on a hot day. The two aforesaid 
men boldly strode forth without packs. 

Go back with me, if you will, to the months of 
March, April and May of 1918, in Camp Zachary 
Taylor, Kentucky; where our chaps were engaged 
in a desperate struggle—chasing “quack-quacks” and 


(13) 


rattling “gunboats”; where many flagged the “gravy 
train” and bore down upon it, or else “swung lead” 
till they swore by the white knees of the Graces that 
the war could have been better won if C.C’s had 
never been heard of; where the old “gim-wagon” was 
ridden to pieces. Back, I say, to the days when we 
“bucked the mess line” for real, honest-to-Goodness 
chow; when some “buck’s” messkit habitually rolled 
on the ground and fell to pieces, and “Let it lay!” 
rang out from the whole outfit; when, in formation, 
that “sergeant of the soldierly bearing” was wont to 
thunder forth, “Up with that dress! You know how 
to do that as well as I do! It’s the prettiest thing in 
the world when done right!” Think, if you will, of 
the countless “dead soldiers” hidden away in the 
great stovepipes after a “fine large night.” Farewell, 
a long farewell- 

Now, on this warm July afternoon Uncle Sam’s 
’obnails were crushing the pebbles on an English 
country roadside. Nobody got warm. “One shpuld 
not get 'ot when one has only one’s pack, overcoat, 
slicker, and blouse-on-buttoned-up to worry with.” 
Onward and forward our braves go. We hike right 
up one hill after another, and down again, on the 
other side. The action grows warmer and warmer. 
We have no reserves or replacement troops imme¬ 
diately behind us. The ’eavy ’obs become ’eavier still. 
For, 

“It ain’t the bunk-fatigue that ’urts the Sammies’ feet. 
But hits’ the ’eavy, 'eavy ’ikin’ on the ’ard ’ighway.” 

After we advance about seven or eight kilometers, 
we again suffer some casualties. Packs, ’ot sun, ’eavy 
’ikin’, it overcomes a few of our braves. Orders are 
becoming confused. Instead of attacking with “coffee- 
grinders” and rifles, as directed, some of our men 
rush forward with “submarines” and “gunboats.” 
For hand grenades they are throwing rolls of ad¬ 
hesive tape and bandages. Pvt. George Haddad saves 
the situation by emerging from the masses and hurl¬ 
ing forward several bundles of valerate of am¬ 
monium. 

We continue to advance. We go forward for about 
a kilometer and are held up. One thing buoys up our 

(14) 



tired spirits. At the end of each pause, “Le’s go!” 
rings out from every throat. Privates Mongeon and 
Sarvene are loudest in the clamors to advance. A 
squad is left behind to take care of the casualties. 

At Bursledon Bridge our warriors are weary and 
footsore. They are near to exhaustion. We have 
advanced till the Court is partly in view. There 
it lies, half hidden by the thick foliage of the trees 
around the Manor house, a familiar flag flying 
from the flagpole. We pitch forward again. A tem¬ 
porary pause holds us up at the village green. On 
ye braves! Another kilometer, and we sweep down 
on the Court! But .... 


THE SIEGE CONTINUES 


Sarisbury Court was the property of the American 
Red Cross. It is located on the Hamble River, 
overlooking Southampton Water and the Isle of 
Wight. Was it by “council of the immortal gods” 
that a bloody siege be enacted amid these peaceful 
surroundings? Within sight of the spot where 
Tennyson said, 

“Sunset and evening star, 

And one clear call for me; 

And may there be no moaning of the bar 
When I put out to sea.” 

“I saw thee, Netley,” of the Ingoldsby Legends, only 
two miles from the Court, and now in ruins; once 
the haunt of Cistercian monks. Four miles from the 
ruins of Titchfield Abbey, now known as Place 
House, where Charles I made his escape, and where 
Shakspere and other celebrities drank ale and 
feasted. But these surroundings have not always 
been peaceful. Only a few hundred yards away, 
down on the Hamble, Alfred the Great met and de¬ 
feated the Norsemen on their own element, the 
water, in the ninth century. Around these haunts 
Briton once clashed with Roman; Viking and Saxon 
with Briton; Briton with Scot and Piet; Norman 
with Englishman; and many other conflicts, legend¬ 
ary and semi-historical, knights, cavaliers and 
“roundheads.” The place-names of this county, 
Hampshire, or Hants, shows its occupation, in suc- 


(15) 




cession, by Celt or early Briton, Roman, Norseman, 
Saxon and Norman. Hants was a gateway into 
England by early invaders. Yes, and the Germans 
pursued the phantom of a false- hope when they 
incorporated in their wild scheme of world-conquest, 
plans to capture the Isle of Wight, and from that 
vantage point to bombard Southampton and Ports¬ 
mouth. 

The haunts of Hants! Amid these legendary and 
historical surroundings one feels one’s self myste¬ 
riously communing with the long-departed manes of 
mighty men of the past. This history of Hampshire 
was for a long time almost the history of England. 
Old Winchester was the capital. Here Arthur and 
“Hys Knyghtes XXIV” feasted and held council 
around the famous “Rownde Table.” Here Guy of 
Warwick vanquished the Danish giant Colbrand, on 
Denmark Mead, a few paces from King Alfred’s 
Place. Here Alfred the Great lived, the greatest of 
all of England’s monarchs, and w r ho contributed his 
share to the Saxon Chronicle. Here William the 
Conqueror was crowned, lived, and had his castle, 
now known as Winchester Castle. Here the Domes¬ 
day Book was compiled, in Wolvesey Castle. Here 
Jane Austen lived, and old Izaac Walton angled in 
the Itchen River. Sir Isaac Newton lived near 
Winchester, so did Florence Nightingale. But it 
were a long and difficult task to chronicle all the 
Hampshire worthies. In pasing, one could also men¬ 
tion Charles Dickens, born in Portsmouth; another 
Chas., Charlie Chaplin, born in the same town. 
Southampton lays claim to Dr. Isaac Watts, famous 
hymn writer, who outdid himself when he wrote: 

“Let dogs delight to bark and bite, 

For God has made them so!” 

Which classic couplet perhaps prompted him to 
implore, as he was bent over his stern old father’s 
knee: 

“Oh, father, pity on me take, 

And I will no more verses make!” 

It was from Southampton that the “Mayflower” and 
the “Speedwell” departed with the Pilgrims, be¬ 
cause the immigration laws of North America at 


(16) 


that time were anything but satisfactory. In spite 
of this the good people of Southampton have allowed 
a monument to be erected down at the old pier, in 
memory of the stern old fathers. 

It was in this same shire that Mr. C. J. Caesar's 
legions contended with the Iceni and the Atrebates, 
Belgic tribes of south Britian. From the Iceni we 
have the Itchen River. Pilgrims on their way to 
Canterbury stopped to worship in Winchester Cathe¬ 
dral. In this famous old Cathedral now rest the 
bones of the Danish and Saxon kings of England, 
including those of Canute the Dane, who rebuked 
his courtiers on the coast at Southampton, when 
they presumed to clothe him with the “divine right 
of kings.” 

We have been digressing a little, for the purpose 
of giving you a sort of detailed background for the 
Siege. What we are trying to say is that history 
has been made around Sarisbury Court. We are 
going to add that Base 40 had swooped down on 
this place to add a little “pep” and spice to this 
long chain of legend and history. Not all the chaps 
of the outfit were conversant with the aforesaid his¬ 
tory and legend, and cared less. Fof, are not Mother 
Bush's, The Bold Forester, The Red Lion, The Ris¬ 
ing Sun, Warsash, Swanwick, Bursledon and Hamble 
almost within hailing distance of the manor house 
and the camp? And was not the plaintive wail of the 
“whippumpoof” bird at night solace enough for the 
fellows as they “rolled the bones” on the O. D. 
blanket? Besides, the patter of the cold, English 
rain on their heads and above their heads served 
to make them forget what Hampshire history they 
may have known. 

Let the Siege continue. Henceforth it divides 
itself into two stages, the tent stage and the barrack 
stage. After the grill of the “Scotian,” the mem¬ 
orable run from Glasgow to Southampton, and the 
boiled potato, “rest” camp escapade from the latter 
place, the fellows had had time to learn to steer to 
the left on the highways, and to say “Shoot a 
shilling!” “A florin he comes!” “Two bob he don’t!” 
etc. Now it was tents and decent mattresses, as far 
as these things go in the Army. 


( 17 ) 


The very next day after reaching the Court r 
throngs of our chaps found their way out to Swan- 
wick, and to Mr. Welch’s Cycle Works, about two 
miles from Camp. The County is famous for numer¬ 
ous and good roads. And so, almost before our lads 
had had time to relieve themselves of the foul 
stench of “Scotian” codfish and cheese, they were 
after bicycles. But the Englishman, Mr. Welch, 
didn’t “rumble” them when they called for “wheels.” 
He thought they wanted separate wheels, to repair 
their own bikes! We understood English pretty 
well, but spoke American. 

During these days the fellows responded nobly 
to at least three bugle calls; pay call, recall from 
fatigue, and chow call, which brought them out to 
buck the mess line for their mutton, cheese, boiled 
spuds and English jam. 

Early in August “one of our Uncles” “put a horse 
on us.” It appeared that the old, broad-brimmed, 
or campaign hat was not in good favor overseas. It 
is the only serviceable hat ever adopted by our 
Army. On this occassion the overseas “go-to-hell” 
hat took its place. It must have been about this 
time, also, that our first mail from America reached 
the Camp. The previous night one of our lads had 
heard a boat whistle down on the Hamble. Ever 
afterward, as surely as a steam whistle of any kind 
was heard, either on the Hamble or on Southampton 
Water, a chorus of voices tore loose, “More mail! 
Bet it’s the ‘Olympic’! ” 

Truly these were the halcyon days for Base 40. 
However, so far, Sarisbury Court was only a camp. 
It was to be transformed into a hospital. Somebody 
across the Channel was getting hurt, every day. We 
were in the midst of an almost primeval forest. 
Anybody could have looked around and seen that 
there wes “much work to be done.” Wheelbarrows, 
shovels, spades, picks, axes, were stacked up every¬ 
where. It was not long before all of us could use 
them like veterans; in fact, so well that some camp 
wit renamed the outfit the “Wheel-Barrow Unit.” 
Various details for fatigue sprang up overnight, 
as rapidly as the growth of a “mushroom” city in 
Oklahoma. By this time every man in the outfit now 


( 18 ) 


realized for the first time his Uncle’s foresight, when 
that little Dennim hat and fatigue suit were thrown 
at him back in Camp Taylor, in his “gum-and- 
sheepskin days” as a raw recruit. The gravel pit; 
the ditch-and-swamp detail; the concrete detail;, 
the wood detail, and about twenty-four “hard-boiled 
guards” to keep the peace while the others worked 
and slept. 

At this time but few of the medical officers and 
nurses were at the Court. They were on duty at 
various camps and hospitals, in England and in 
France. Late in August the assault on Paignton, 
over in Devonshire, became so furious that a de¬ 
tachment of our brave lads was hurried to that 
point as replacements. Thus was the original per¬ 
sonnel beginning to suffer further casualties. Our 
doughty chaps at the Court continued to struggle 
manfully, “puttin’ out” as little as they possibly 
could. Their activities soon reached out beyond the 
confines of the estate. They could spot every “pub” 
within a radius of fifteen kilometers, and were fast 
friends of all the Hampshire damsels. Not a man 
of us but that could find his way, blindfolded, back 
to camp, through twenty-seven different paths other 
than by Post 1. Southampton, Portsmouth and the 
Isle of Wight, they fit us like an old shoe. 

Late in September other points became hard 
pressed. A detachment was rushed to Winchester, 
where the Battle of Morn Hill was raging. A sortie 
against Hursley Park, near Winchester, caused a 
detachment to be hurried to that point. Portsmouth 
was near capitulation, and we nobly responded 
to its Macedonian call. From over the Channel, in 
France, came the S. O. S. call, and a squad of our 
indomitable lads hastened forth. Thus was our orig¬ 
inal list of effectives cut to half a company. 

Listen, if you will, bend down thine ear that I 
may pour more words of information therein, and 
tell you of a thing that happened about this time, 
late in September—a thing that hit the spirit of our 
fine lads like a charge of TNT. The big wards had 
been completed—and patients began to fill them! 
It was a brusque awakening, more ward work! More 
long lines of patients’ bunks, nurses innumerable,. 


( 19 ) 


medicos, laundry details, coke details, and the long- 
forgotten clank of “whiz-bangs” and “gunboats.” 
“Orderly, bring me a . . . .” “Make it two!” 

The Siege was now at its height again. Bunk 
fatigue was no more, except for a few non-coms. 
Some of the chaps almost forgot how to “roll the 
bones,” and some forgot how to make their way 
surreptitiously out of camp around Post No. 1. The 
K. P’s. slept with a mop and a dishrag under their 
heads. None but the “guards,” the C. O., and a 
few non-coms., and officers seemed to have it soft. 
In accordance with its usual habit, time was passing. 
It always does when people get busy. Winter was 
coming. With it, more rain, more mud. We dropped 
right into our Uncle’s gum boots, and almost forgot 
what shoes were made for. It was raining nine days, 
seventeen hours and forty-five minutes out of every 
week. The weather was coming in samples, and the 
climate was not a climate, but a disease. 

What some of the folks back home call an 
ar-mis-tice was signed with the Huns November 
eleventh. Another, but a different charge of TNT 
had hit Base 40. Back in Camp Taylor the fellows 
were “rarin’ to go,” and staking dollars on the date 
of our leaving for “over there.” Now there was a 
quick reaction, they had had enough, and were ready 
to stake pounds to get out of the Army (?), and 
back home. But five long, Army months were before 
us. (Later on, in January, some of the fellows were 
wearing six service chevrons on their left sleeves, 
because they said the six months overseas seemed 
like three years). The tent stage, up to a certain 
point, had been as uneventful and as halcyon as a 
Sunday afternoon on Titchfield Common. As we have 
remarked, above, the first breaking point was late 
in September, when the tent stage was well ad¬ 
vanced. At that time enlisted personnel stock drop¬ 
ped away below par. 

The armistice did not put an end to our work. 
The “duck” quacked even louder, if possible. By 
this time the outfit was comfortable ensconced in 
barracks, and the barrack stage was on. Late in 
December those detachments that had been sent 
to certain hard pressed points begain to return to 


( 20 ) 


the old roost, at the Court. A strange thing had 
just happened. In “this man’s Army” extraordinary 
things may, and do happen every day. Presto chango, 
a quick, downward stroke of Aladdin’s Lamp—and, 
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have with us tonight” 
Lieutenant Graves! The “sergeant of soldierly bear¬ 
ing” had been metamorphosed into a shave-tail. We 
must use this Greek word, because that’s the only 
way he could ever have come by a commission, not 
to mention a “straight salary.” Sows’ ears never 
become silk purses, save by some magic wand, or 
presto chango stunt. “Dere Mable!” how the fellows 
enjoyed daily barrack inspections henceforth! So 
anxious was the new detachment commander, said 
shave-tail, to show the fellows a “ripping,” time, 
that passes were flashed in our faces without the 
asking! If a fellow had not crawled into his bunk 
by 11:00 p. m., it was all the same; for the D. C. 
merely patted him on the shoulder and reassured 
him: ’S all right, Jack, all of us forget, sometimes; 
I’ll not mark it up against you this time, but be a 
little more careful hereafter, for you may some day 
have a ‘hard-boiled’ detachment commander over 
you. Good night.” Our hearts were further glad¬ 
dened by the sudden appearance of Sergeant “Black 
Mike,” from Portsmouth. But let certain “Eunix” 
relate how his claws were clipped one night. 

In January patients began to leave the Court for 
the States. Some of our patriotic lads, erstwhile 
hale and hearty, suddenly were “taken sick,” and 
it became necessary to hurry them back to the 
States, along with the patients. Everbody was deep¬ 
ly touched at this misfortune of our brethren, and 
there was only one dry “O. D.” rag in the whole 
outfit. So strangely and mysteriously do nostalgia 
and “platinum-slinging” react on the best of us. In 
February there were further urgent calls from 
France, and a detachment or two was sent across the* 
Channel. Office men especially were in demand. 
Here again masterly efficiency and a knowledge of 
men’s qualifications were manifested to a high de¬ 
gree—when our new D. C. yanked out a dozen men 
who scarcely knew the difference between a “writin’ 
machine” and a Dago’s grind organ. But, “listen, my 
children, and you shall hear” of the swift retribution 

( 21 ) 



which followed later. These men found themselves 
in Marseille later on. On their return home, they 
cast anchor several days at Gibraltar, and helped 
coal the boat with baskets! 

About this time the outfit suddenly found another 
charge of TNT, like the sword of Damocles, hanging 
over their “tin derbies.” The commanding officer had 
reported us ready for duty in - in - in Siberia! We 
were seeing strange things in our temporary hallu¬ 
cinations—Russian roubles, vodka. Cossacks, Bol- 
sheviki, snow, icicles. The spell was broken, how¬ 
ever, when Col. Barrow suddenly arrived in camp 
and succeeded in scotching the Siberian peril. At 
last most of the patients had left the Court. Those 
of our fellows who were lucky enough, were availing 
themselves of the much-heralded seven-day leaves. 
Our lads thus began to bear down upon London, Ire¬ 
land and Scotland. We were not allowed to go over 
to France, although men in France were allowed to 
visit the British Isles. Well, our chaps had long 
since learned how to say “booking office” for “ticket 
office,” and “carriage” for “coach.” In London one 
of them spent several hours looking for the “Church 
of England.” Another looked up Piccadilly Circus, 
because he wanted to see a good show. Nothing 
escaped our lads except their £. s. d’s. The 
sights in London, the old English castles and cathe¬ 
drals, the Scotch Highlands, Glasgow, Edinburgh, 
Aberdeen, old Erin, Dublin, Belfast and Cork,—our 
chaps hit them with characteristic Yank impetuosity. 
We now had more time to go among the English 
people, to learn more about them and their customs. 
For a long time we had harbored a sneaking desire 
to sally forth over the “bloody” country, and to pry 
the lid off to see what made old England tick. 

And so began the days ow A. W. O. L’s. The au¬ 
thorities at the Court had a pernicious custom of 
checking up on our bunks at 11:00 p. m. It was easy 
to slip one over on them here. All a fellow had to 
do was to tear down his bunk and hide it, either 
under the barracks floor or out in the woods. Dum¬ 
mies also became common, and at night were quietly 
put to bed with the head covered. Sometimes we 


(22) 


could beat the officers doing what they were trying 
to do to us. 

What have we been saying? Those who were lucky 
enought got these seven-day leaves. A few got 
them. Priority of application had nothing to do with 
it. It was almost as startling a myth as was the 
American University Union in Paris and London, and 
the educational myth. So much for pseudo-Army 
efficiency and justice. 

“The Stars and Stripes” had announced that over¬ 
seas men would be allowed to wear divisional in¬ 
signia on the left shoulder. Why “divisional” in¬ 
signia for Base 40, no one knows. Some of our chaps 
had been sent up to Tottenham, around London. 
At about this time, in February, they suddenly blew 
into the Court, gaily bedight, with a big “S.O.S.” 
on their shoulders. Almost before nightfall the en¬ 
tire outfit blossomed out with this strange device, 
although few knew what it meant. “Upidee-a-dee- 
a-dee”—what did it all mean? Speculation as to its 
significance was rife. “Save, Oh, Save!” “Save Our 
Souls!” Others avowed that it meant nothing more 
than “Service Over Seas.” Why not?—weren’t we 
overseas? The thoughtful ones, however, declared 
that the designer of the insignia must have been 
a Cubist, or a Futurist, and that the mystery was 
simply this: S.O.L. It was left for the imagination to 
twist the final S into L. 

Time was hanging heavy over the heads of most of 
us. One day some ingenious chap carried a plain, 
silver finger ring into camp. It had been hammered 
out of a two shilling piece by a German prisoner. 
The following day a slow, steady hammering was 
heard in one of the barracks. It was marked by a 
monotonous swing of the hammer, and could be 

scanned by two slow, heavy beats,-, followed by 

two short, quick ones, -- --, or, as it said, B-a-n-g- 
b-a-n-g, bang-bang!” From that it spread to all the 
barracks, and the noise and confusion became gen¬ 
eral. Now the steady pounding seemed to say, 
“T-w-o—s-h-i-1—ings-gone!” A shortage of florins was 
threatened all over England, and a camp order put 
a stop to the steady hammering of His Majesty’s 
coins. 


(23) 


Another big day was fast approaching. The days 
of the Siege were almost numbered. All the supplies 
had been boxed and crated, and shipped to Liverpool. 
Officers were coming down from London every day 
or so, and “final” inspections were taking place 
daily. This was a sign that something was about to 
happen. An inspection underneath the barrack 
floors, and in nearly every “copse” would at this time 
have revealed a mass of souvenirs, junk, etc., which 
the fellows were hiding, in order to take back to 
the States. Early in March the barrack bag had 
come under the ban. One day, then, during the 
first fortnight of March, the order came, “Entrain 
for Liverpool!” For three weeks our steeple-jacks 
had been scaling the tower of the manor house, and 
scanning with field glasses every boat on Southamp¬ 
ton Water. The Siege was at an end. Out by the 
same old village green our heroes strode, more than 
a hundred strong, having been made stronger still 
by Strong’s Romsey Ale at Mother Bush’s; on to 
Swanwick station! Good-bye, Mother Bush! Good-bye, 
Hampshire lassies! Goodbye, Southampton Water! 
Good-bye, Sarisbury Court. The Court is dead, long 
live the Court! 

Here the chronicle of the Siege proper should close. 
But wait. We had invaded the British Isles during 
the stress of war. On the way from Glasgow to 
Southampton we had passed through English cities 
over which hung almost total darkness, because 
of the Zeppelins. We had almost lived in dark¬ 
ness up until November 11th. Now the background 
had changed. We could see these same cities lighted 
up at night. The outfit, now numbering scarcely over 
one hundred men, marked time in Liverpool, await¬ 
ing embarkation orders. 

About March nineteenth, 1919, something happened 
in Liverpool, A chill wind blew in from London, in 
the guise of an order, that hit a certain shave-tail so 
hard that the tail of his blouse rolled up like a 
window shade, and he waked up among strangers, 
over in France. 

The fellows were on bunk fatigue at Knotty Ash 
Camp, Liverpool. March twentieth, “Fall in with 
your packs!” The Army trucks unloaded us at the 


( 24 ) 


Cunard docks. Before our eyes lay the giant Cunard 
liner, the “Aquitania.” Shades of the “Scotian,” what 
a difference! At night we say good-bye to England, 
and the foredeck of the Aquitania is pointed south¬ 
ward, through the Irish Sea. The next day, March 
twenty-first, we sight the coast of France, Brittany; 
for most of us the first time, France, the France that 
we had been cheated out of seeing. We put into 
the harbor of Brest, w r here several thousand dough¬ 
boys join us. The following day the Aquitania execu¬ 
ted a brilliant “right-face,” and struck boldly out 
across the Atlantic. 

The voyage back across was not spectacular. Yet, 
in mid-ocean the water suddenly became choppy and 
boisterous through the night. Like the “cullud lady” 
who jes’ na’chelly done lost her taste fo’ dat niggah, 
we suddenly lost our taste for grub. There was not 
room at the rails for all of us, but most of us “came,” 
and came strong. 

The morning of March thirtieth we found ourselves 
in New York Harbor, close to the Lady that holds 
high the Torch. The Mayor’s Committee was out in 
a boat to welcome us. But much or the thrill was 
gone, for had not New Yorkers been welcoming re 
turning Yanks since December. We stood on 
B-deck for five long hours. At 1 o’clock p. m. we 
debarked, and fought our way into the big shed at 
the Cunard dock, where we made a savage attack 
on good, old honest-to-Goodness American grub. Then 
the ferry boats to the New Jersey side, and a train 
for Camp Merritt. Here we qgain mark time, till 
April fourteenth. 

Just previous to leaving Camp Merritt permission 
from the War Department had bfeen received for the 
outfit to parade in Lexington, the place where the 
fellows had “joined up.” On April fourteenth we 
entrained for Lexington, arriving mere April fif¬ 
teenth. The story of the parade is short. Out of more 
than two hundred men that had entrained for Camp 
Taylor at the Southern Depot more han a year be¬ 
fore, slightly more than a hundred were in the pa¬ 
rade. The others were in France; so was he. The 
Bluegrass welcomed “her own” warmly, with all the 
ardor attendant upon “heroes back from the wars.” 


( 25 ) 


In order that the parade might appear more martial, 
more veteranlike, two of our lads strode past the 
gazing multitudes, with their side-arms girt about 
them. The night of the same day we entrain for 
Camp Taylor, and quit working for our Uncle April 
nineteenth, which is a historic date otherwise, also. 


WHAT THEY THINK OF HIM 

(A Short Study in Poetics) 



t 

-gorge! 

! 


• 

-George! 


- braves! 


- Graves! 


— - — - — - mean! 


— - — - — - lean! 


— - — - — - bad! 


cad 


leaven! 

heaven? 


tell 


hell 


( 26 ) 
































MEDICAL CORPS PRIMER 

LESSON I 
THE DUCK 

It is a duck. 

The duck is a fowl. 

The duck swims on the water. 

Ducks have feathers. 

The duck talks. It says, Quack! quack!’’ 
The duck has a broad bill. 

Are all ducks fowls? 

Do all ducks swim? 

Do all ducks have feathers? 

Do all ducks talk? 

Do all ducks have broad bills? 

Any Medical Corps man can answer these 
questions. 

Is there a picture of the duck on this page? 
No. The picture is in the memory of all 
Medical Corps men. 

LESSON II 
It is a gunboat. 

The gunboat is a war vessel. 

It fights on the water. 

It was made for war. 

Many men can stay in it. 

It is more dangerous than the duck. 

All gunboats were made for war. 

All gunboats do not fight on the water. 
All gunboats do not hold many men. 

I know one that will hold only two or 
three ducks. 

The “C. C.” is the weathercock that tells 
' us when the gunboat will likely go into action. 
Medical Corps men do not like the duck; 
they hate the gunboat. 

(27) 




FALL IN! 


“Fall in!” lie heard it first at Camp Taylor, in 
March, 1918. The first time he “fell in” was when 
he held up his right hand and swore he would be a 
good soldier. At that time he did not know what 
“soldering” means. In fact, he fell in so deep that 
time that he probably thought it impossible to fall 
any deeper in. Well, that day he cherished all 
those fine visions about the uniform, and marching 
on foreign soil, how soon he could get into a uni¬ 
form, get his picture taken and hurry it back to 
fond ones at home,—that day when he held up his 
right hand, he had only slipped over the brink. 

He fell in for reveille; he fell in for drill; he 
fell in for mess; he fell in for fatigue details; for 
hikes, with full “papoose;” for inspection; for 
“short-arm;” for pay; he fell in for so many other 
things that he can’t remember them. He fell in 
to help save Civilization; before he got through 
with falling in he felt like falling out, and letting 
Civilization fall to pieces. Sometimes, yes, usually, 
he was not ready when the assembly call blew. 
Sometimes a mere shoestring, or legging string 
would break; sometimes somebody would annex his 
hat; sometimes a close “black-jack” game, or “stud 
poker” game was on hand. If his name began with 
any letter after S in the alphabet, at roll call, he 
stood a chance of getting there before his name 
was reached; if his name stood near the top, he 
was likely to be all out-of-luck. If he was late, and 
the sergeant didn’t like him, he stood in line for a 
promotion as a K. P. If he was late, and had 
loaned the sergeant five bucks, he was safe. If he 
fell in late for chow, the “belly-robbers” would 
flatly tell him he was out-of-luck. Poor old buck! 
The next time he falls in-. 


LET IT LAY! 


“Come and git it!” yells the sergeant, 
Raw recruits line up for chow; 
Nervous fumbling at the mess kit— 
Handle it “like a Spanish cow!” 


( 28 ) 






Stiff old handle flies up quickly, 

Then the mess kit slips away, 

Falls and hits the ground and rattles— 
Raw recruits all holler, “Let it lay!” 

Bucks and non-coms, out for roll call, 
Hard-boiled sergeant holds the book; 

Standing at attention, rigid, 

With a steady, forward look; 

Ready for the hike for duty 
Early at the break of day; 

Mess kit hits the ground, in pieces— 
Sergeant hollers, “Let it lay!” 

So it is, in “this man’s Army,” 

All along the cussed way— 

Every time a raw buck fumbles, 
Someone hollers, “Let it lay!” 


O. D. 

“Now blessings rest on the head of him who first conceived 
this same color scheme!” 


O, it’s O.D. this and it’s O. D. that, 

And it’s O. D. here and there; 

’T was O. D. then, ’t is O. D. now, 

And it’s O. D. everywhere. 

It’s O. D. blouse, it’s O. D. shirt, 

And it’s O. D. hat, and pants; 

’T was O. D. back in U. S. A., 

’T is O. D. here in Hants. 

It’s O. D. kerchiefs, O. D. gloves, 

It’s O. D. sweaters and puttees; 

It’s O. D. coffee all the time, 

And also O. D. cheese. 

The O. D. comes around at night 
And N. C. O. D., too. 

Some O. D. people have it soft, 

I’ll tell the O- D- world and you. 

It’s O. D. now for some time yet, 

Then O. D. cross the pond. 


( 29 ) 






.1 hope this O. D. stuff will end, 
Up there in the Great Beyond. 


THE OLD ARMY HOBNAIL 

(With apologies to the author of The Old Oaken Bucket) 


“Hit ’im with a hobnail!”—Army Bluff. 

How dear to my heart are things Uncle issued, 
When every inspection presents them to view! 

I can’t think of all, no I can’t, not to save me— 
How many I’ve lost out of those that I drew. 

The “dog-tag,” the name and the number stamped 
in it, 

The mess-kit, the helmet, the blue barrack bag; 
The blouse, with a collar so big I can’t chin it, 

The hobnails so heavy I can’t “shake a leg.” 

The old campaign hat, now discarded and turned in, 
The go-to-h-- hat that has taken its place; 

The medical belt and the knapsack above it, 

The punk (N)Ever-Ready, disgrace to the race. 
The canteen, the axe and the brown first aid packet, 
The condiment can, and the rest of the junk; 

The best weapon handy in any old racket— 

The old Army hobnail lined up ’neath the bunk. 

The small shelter-half, and the thin O. D. blanket; 

The little Dennim hat, the fatigue suit of brown, 
Indeed, ’t is a pity the “Scotian” never sank it— 
The “nawsty” short rain-coat worth full half a 
crown. 

The chocolate bars handed out by the ladies— 

“Two lamb-chops, two eggs, or three apples” on 
the square; 

But—the old Army hobnail—let it go to hades— 
The old Army hobnail we wore “over there.” 


AN HONEST SOLDIER 


In the Cathedral churchyard, Winchester, Eng¬ 
land, a beaten path leads to a tombstone, which 
bears the following quaint and humorous inscrip- 

( 30 ) 






tion. Members of Base 40 have left it many a time 
with wet kerchiefs. 

In Memory of 
THOMAS THETCHER 

A Grenadier in the North Reg’t 
of Hants Militia, who died of a 
violent Fever contracted by drinking 
Small Beer when hot the 12th. of May 

1764, Aged 26 Years. 

In grateful remembrance of whose universal 
good will toward his Comrades, this Stone 
is placed here at their expence, as a small 
testimony of their regard, and concern. 

Here sleeps in peace a hampshire Grenadier, 
Who caught his death by drinking cold small beer. 

Soldiers be wise from his untimely fall, 

And when ye’re hot drink Strong or none at all. 

This memorial being decay’d was restor’d 
by the Officers of the Garrison A. D. 1781. 

An honest Soldier never is forgot, 
Whether he die by Musket or by Pot. 

This Stone was placed by the North Hants 
Militia, when disembodied at Winchester, 
on 26th. April 1802, in consequence of 
the original Stone being destroyed. 

Copyright destroyed with original Stone!—J.H.C. 


THE NURSE BEHIND THE GUN 


You’ve heard of how the boys over there 
Struck terror to the Hunnish heart— 

How Pershing, Foch, Haig and all the rest 
Stood up to play the hero’s part. 

Now Fritz is gone, the “cock-pit’s” free again; 
The roar of mighty guns is stilled; 


( 31 ) 




No longer clanks the bloody, Prussian sword. 
By treason, trick and cunning willed. 

But there’s another valiant story yet, 

Of deeds the world is less aware— 

The story of the gallant A. N. C., 

That toiled and labored over there. 

Now deeds of daring, both on land and sea, 
And thrilling air fights overhead 

Most often tincture war’s romance, 

And hallow spots where heroes bled. 

The art and ghastly weapons of grim war 
Were fashioned to destroy men; 

Then came the Medico and gentle nurse 
To build the suffering up again. 

Then here’s a health to Florence Nightingale, 
And all her sisters in the cause; 

A curse on Mars and all his martial tribe, 

Who cut down man and ruin his laws! 


THE SOLDIER’S BUNK 


The soldier’s bunk is his home. 

Though narrow, free from linen white 
And pillows soft, with scarce a mattress, 

It is his home. Three O. D. blankets, 
Bedsack, straw—for “bunk fatigue” 

And sleep. Who spoke of useless chairs? 
Or table, escritoire, or hatrack, 

Chiffonier and all that stuff? 

“How’d ye git that way,” to think a soldier 
Needed all these unnecessary things? 

The O. D. blanket is the table 
Where the “black-jack” artists gather; 
Where “stud poker” goes its limit; 

Where the “spotted bones” are rolling; 
Where goes the “royal game” in silence. 
The old mess kit a writing board. 

When tired and wet from walking post, 

Or weary from fatigue outside— 

When everything has gone dead wrong, 


( 32 ) 





When there is nowhere else to go— 
The soldier’s bunk is yet his home. 


CONFINED TO CAMP 


Confined to camp, because his bed 

Had the blankets at the foot instead of at the head; 

Confined to camp for two weeks more, 

For leaving a toothpick on the floor. 

Because his “hobs” were not in line, 

With the toes in front instead of behind; 

Because his bunk was one inch out, 

And not in line with the bunks about. 

Confined to camp because his hose 

Did not match up with the rest of his clothes; 

Because he hadn’t got new pants, 

When there w r ere none in all of Hants. 

Because he wore his sweater outside, 

And not beneath, next to his hide; 

Because his “hobs” were never mates— 

Issued that way, back in the States. 

Confined to barracks that same date— 

On twelve hour leave, ten minutes late; 

Because he lingered thereabouts, 

And lit his candle after “taps.” 


“COME AND GIT IT!” 


“Come and git it!” yells the sergeant, 
Bucks rush in for chow; 

How they eat it is a wonder— 

No one knows just how! 

“Hold your messkit over the counter!” 

“Hold on, don’t get gay!” 

“Get your place back in the line-up”— 
“How’d ye git that way?” 

“Come and git it!” yells the sergeant, 
Bucks sing out, “Git what?” 


( 33 ) 






Waiter answers over the table, 
“Gullion, sizzling hot!” 

“Belly-robbers!” yell the hungry, 
Gnawing at the beef; 

Then there’s “Seconds here on gullion! 
Are you guys all deaf?” 

Beefsteak when I’m hungry, 

Corn liquor when I’m dry, 

Pretty little girl when I’m lonesome, 
Sweet heaven when I die. 

“Come and git it!” yells the sergeant, 
Bucks rush in for chow; 

How they eat it is a wonder— 

No one knows just how! 


C. C. 



Does your conscience hurt you, brother? 
Do you pine for home and mother? 
Have your spirits sunk down low? 

Take a C. C., let it go. 

Does the world seem dark and dreary? 
Are you tired, are you weary? 

If you are, say, listen, bo, 

Take a C. C., let it go. 

Do you pine for lost years waning? 
Your desserts you are not gaining? 

Let them rot, all in a row— 

Take a C. C., let it go. 

Are you spineless, are you craven, 

Soul as black as midnight raven? 
Listen, soldier, hearken, bo. 

Take a C. C., let it go. 

Retribution are you fearing, 

As the candle’s end is nearing? 


( 34 ) 




Let your face be all aglow— 

Take a C. C., let it go. 

Your transgressions unforgiven? 
Closed to you the gates of heaven? 
See your future white as snow— 
Take a C. C., let it go. 

Does your head feel heavy, dizzy, 
Bowels locked like some “tin-Lizzie?” 
Doctor can this balm bestow: 

Take a C. C., let it go! 


WALKING POST 


“For it’s two hours on and four hours off,” 

In the steady, pouring rain; 

And it’s “Halt! who’s there”? “A friend.” “Advance!”' 
Monotonous, daily refrain. 

Eight hours of duty in the rain, 

“In a military manner” to walk; 

The banshee screams and the “whippumpoof” howls- 
We’re not allowed to talk. 

The O. D. makes the rounds to see 
If the post is walked aright; 

He calls for General Orders all. 

But he himself couldn’t give them right. 

He says, “Hold every man tonight 
Who hasn’t got a pass!” 

And soon a “bird” is pased right by— 

Out bent to see his lass. 


PASSING THE BUCK 


pass the buck, to, Verb phrase. It does not 
mean to pass the buck private by a hard-boiled 
guard, or an M. P. It is a subterfuge, behind which 
every man in the service, except the buck, daily 
hides. Even the B. P. may sometimes resort to it, 
with varying degrees of success or failure. How- 

( 35 ) 






ever, the top-kick and the shave-tail are the ones 
who most commonly pass the buck. If the detach¬ 
ment commander happens to be a shave-tail, there¬ 
in lies a tragedy, and the buck is overworked. 

Here is a typical example of buck-passing. “G. O. 
(which Englished, means nothing more than Gen¬ 
eral Order) 1,648,237: Hereafter, better sanitary con¬ 
ditions must prevail in all camps and hospitals of 
the American Expeditionary Forces." Hot from 
Washington! The order makes it way over to Head¬ 
quarters in France and England. It is intended for 
“Black Jack” and Biddle. They may see it, they 
may not. Anyway, it is transmitted by a series 
of downward geometric progression, until it finally 
reaches the C. O., a mighty man, in each camp and 
hospital. After a few months it appears on the 
daily latrine sheet, the bulletin board. After a few 
more weeks the C. O. calls the Adjutant’s attention 
to it, let us say—for the buck must be passed. Or 
maybe the C. O. passes it along to the detachment 
commander, or to the sanitary officer. The com¬ 
missioned “bird” passes it on to the top-kick, let 
us assume, who in turns looks up the sergeant or 
corporal of the sanitary squad. This dignitary is a 
past master at the art of buck-passing. Onward and 
onward goes the order, downward, ever downward. 
There is for it but one logical destination. A day 
or two before the outfit receives orders to leave 
camp, two hefty buck privates find themselves over 
the big grease-trap, in front of the hospital kitchen. 

. . . . Yes, the buck private won the war, and 

he knows he did. Plutarque a menti! 


SOME BASE 40 SYLLOGISMS 

(Otherwise known as “Latrine Dope”) 


At the Training Camp 

MAJOR PREMISE: When one outfit leaves camp 
for a port of embarkation, it follows that another 
outfit will soon move from camp. 

MINOR PREMISE: The 309th. Ammunition Train 
has just pulled out. 

CONCLUSION: Therefore, Base 40 will leave soon. 


( 36 ) 




Whenever a troop train is standing ready in the 
yards, some outfit is going to leave on it. 

Somebody said a troop train was expected to be 
ready next week. 

Therefore, Base 40 will leave camp next week. 


At the Port of Embarkation 

Whenever an order to move is given, the outfit 
is going to the docks. 

The sergeant said we would move this afternoon. 

Therefore, Base 40 embarks for France some time 
today. (The outfit moves over to another company 
street). 


Out on the Deep 

All birds must nest, hatch and have their habitat 
on dry land. 

These little things flitting about out here on mid¬ 
ocean are birds. 

Therefore, they must have dry land on which to 
nest, hatch and have their habitat. 


If a boat continues on its course far enough, it will 
eventually sight land. 

The “Scotian” is three days out. 

Therefore, Base 40 will debark at Brest. 


U-boats are likely to attack the outermost trans¬ 
port of the fleet. 

The “Scotian” is the outermost boat in our fleet. 
Therefore, the “Scotian” will in all probability be 
attacked by submarines. 


At the Rest Camp—Southampton 

Whatever Base 41 does, Base 40 will also do. 
Base 41 has just left for France. 

Therefore, Base 40 will leave for France soon. 

( 37 ) 







At Sarisbury Court—England 

Some hospital outfit is going to be sent to Siberia. 
Base 40 is here in England, and the war is over. 
Therefore, Base 40 will be sent to Siberia. 

Whenever a boat whistle blows, mail has arrived 
from the States. 

A whistle blew a few minutes ago. (Down on the 
Hamble.) 

Therefore, the “Olympic” has just put into South¬ 
ampton Water, and it carries mail for Base 40. 


Whenever a boat puts into Southampton Water, it 
is a sign that somebody’s going home on it. 

The “Olympic” left New York for Southampton 
last week. 

Therefore, Base 40 goes home on the “Olympic.” 
(One of the fellows had been looking for the “Olym¬ 
pic” for seven days, from the tower of the manor 
house.) 


BALLADE OF Ye GOODE SHIPPE “MARMALADE” 


It was the good ship “Marmalade” 
That sailed the salty sea, 

Sent out from New York Harbour, 

To carry the M. R. C. 

She was a staunch old transport— 

On port- and starboard side; 

For she was launched at Glasgow, 
Close by the bonnie Clyde. 

Her crew were “bloomin’ ” Henglish 
From hold to quarter-deck; 

O it’s beastly, and it’s blawsted— 
And it’s bloody, too, by Hec! 

I cawn’t relate the voyage— 

What chawnced along the wi-ay, 

For a bloomin’, nawsty, censor man 
Deletes, and cries out “Ni-ay”! 


( 38 ) 






I say, ’twas Unit Forty 

Out from the bluegrass clime, 

That paced the deck of the “Scotian” 
All in the summer time. 

O it’s stale cheese and it’s codfish, 
And marma-liade, to-boot! 

And the stench thereof was mighty, 
From foredeck back to poop. 

Base Forty held the steerage, 

Beneath the old hatchway; 

The bloody brine splashed upwards, 
And came right down our way. 

’T was hammocks swung so closely 
Down in that sultry hole, 

When one “dreamsack” was shaken, 
It shook each bloomin’ soul. 

The good ship zigged and bounded, 
And then she veered and zagged; 

She beat the mighty waters 
Till she was tired and fagged. 

Our lads bore up right bravely, 

Like buccaneers of old; 

They braved the waves and rolling, 
Nor feared the Arctic cold. 

Although far out to windward, 

Away from nook and lee— 

We’d shipped all on the “Scotian,” 
Some fereign land for to see. 

’T was cheery yo-ho-ho-o, 

But no bottle of bally rum! 

For the spirits on the good ship 
Had all gone on the bum. 

One night blew up a hurricane, 

The waves leapt over bow, 

Our brave lads clenched the railing 
And fed the fish below. 


( 39 ) 




O the beastly drill to boat-deck, 
And the portholes closed to eyes; 
O the bloomin’ life preservers, 

And the settin’-up exercise! 


Now the nightly watch for U-boats, 
”Guy-ing-wi-ee” for a good K. P.! 

Parade for the bloody “short-arm”— 
All on the old salt sea! 

“’Ot stuff!” our K. P’s bellow, 

And sling the slop below; 

It sinks among the sea-kind, 

And then the fishes know— 

What we have had to suffer 
To save the bloody world! 

Rise up, ye tars, in passion— 

The “Scotian’s” flag is furled! 

O the “white-caps” and the flashes 
Of phosphorescent glow— 

O the balmy breezes of ocean, 

And the gentle ripple below! 

O the din and hell of warfare, 

And the clank of bloody arms! 

What a vision for the hero, 

With all its thrills and charms! 

We love our noble country, 

Adore her like a mother; 

But if this blamed war’s over, 

We’ll never love another! 

Blank bells, and we’re in Glasgow, 
Far up the River Clyde; 

O the balmy breezes of ocean, 

If the skipper hasn’t lied. 

How many knots we covered, 

Our brave lads are “at sea;” 

They know how many fathoms deep 
The “Scotian” ought to be! 


( 40 ) 


“We sailed all over the ocean, 
We sailed all over the sea; 
So safe-ly we got landed 
In the wars of Germany!” 


A BUCK’S REPLY TO GEORGE’S LETTER 


(The King’s letter appears in The Siege of Saris- 
bury Court, page 11. 

George, R. I.! 

I got your letter all right, and was sure glad to 
hear from you. One of your men handed it to me 
at Glasgow, right after I got off of your boat, the 
“Scotian,” last week. I’ll say, it sure done me good, 
after what I went through with on your boat. 

I wanted to answer your letter before this, but it 
has been raining nearly all the time, and I have been 
wet and cold, and they put me to K. P’in’ as soon as 
we got to the rest-camp; besides, the Y. M. C. A. 
wouldn’t let me have but one sheet of paper. Say, it 
must take a lot of your time to write us fellers. 
I w T onder if you write all of them? 

George, you said you’d like to shake hands with 
every one of us. Seein’ as how you don’t have time 
to associate much with privates, and how big a job 
it would be, I don’t guess you’d have time for it. 
Yep, and I guess the Tommies and Poilus are 
sure glad to see us come along. 

If I ain’t on K. P. duty next week, and hear from 
you again, I’ll write a longer one. Listen, George, 
don’t let the Irish slip nothin’ over on you. (Ha, ha!) 
Well, so long, George. 

Yours, 

B. P., A. E. F. 

P. S. We had a fight with one of your ancestors, 
but that don’t matter, now, does it? You forgot to 
address your envelope to me, but I got the letter all 
right. If yon don’t get this letter, let me know. 

July, 1918. 


IN HAMPSHIRE FIELDS 

(With apologies to Col. John McCrae) 

In Hampshire fields the lassies blow, 


( 41 ) 






And spot the Sammies row on row, 

Around our camp; and in the sky 
The larks still bravely singing fly, 

Scarce heard by spooning Yanks below. 

We are now gone. Short months ago 
We sparked, felt love, saw Hampton’s glow, 
Jilted, got jilted, and didn’t cry 
In Hampshire fields. 

Take up our nightly spooning, bo, 

To you from parting hands we throw 
The torch; be yours to flaunt it high. 

If ye break faith, don’t ask us why 
We shall not sleep, though lassies grow 
In Hampshire fields. 


NETLEY ABBEY 


I stand at sunset ’mid thy crumbling ruins, 

O Netley, haunts of monks Cistercian, where 
Thy humble churchmen once were wont to pray. 
Here in this solemn place where vesper called 
To worship all the lowly men of God, 

Who sang Hosannas to the King of Hosts. 

I see behind the veil of that long past 
The cowls that enter, one by one, to do 
Their Aves, and to go about their tasks. 

I see the foot-sore Pilgrim passing by, 

Just as the shades fall o’er Southampton way; 

The quiet and stillness of the water turn 
Him in to seek the holy monks within. 

Ah, Netley, centuries have left thy quiet 
Domain a mass of slowly crumbling ruins; 

Thy glory was, but is no more, save in 
Good souls that love the past, and thee. 

Now creeping vines cling round thy crannied walls, 
And flowerets here and there peep forth to bloom; 
Above, on some projecting stone the thrush 
Sits perched, and sings and looks about the ruins. 
The vault of heaven is now thy architrave; 

Thy sun, thy moon still shine for Pilgrim sore; 
The subterranean water in the ditch 
Still runs beneath thy cold and mossy stones; 
Twilight yet steals far o’er Southampton way, 

And sheds upon the water all its glow. 


( 42 ) 




No vesper bell now sounds its gentle toll, 
For all is silent in the folds of night. 


CROSSING TO THE BAR 


Sunset at Bush’s “pub,” 

And one clear call for me; 

And may there be no shortage of the “goods” 
When I put out to see! 


BEVIS OF HAMPTON VS. ASCUPART 


British legend has it that once upon a time Sir 
Bevis of Hampton and the giant, Ascupart met in 
single combat. It was at Southampton. Whether or 
not by agreement, these two worthies met on top 
of the old Bar Gate, on High Street. We herewith 
offer a sketch, as a modern sport writer might have 
“covered” the event. 

BEVIS BATTERS ASCUPART 

The giant Ascupart is no more. Pugilistic fans 
had the thrill of their lives yesterday, when they 
saw the crafty Sir Bevis wrest the long-held title 
from the mighty Ascupart, in a ten round bout. A 
quick, sharp undercut connected with the giant’s 
left jaw, and his bettors and admirers saw him 
tumble headlong from the gate, a lost champ. It 
was a clean knockout. All Britian should feel highly 
gratified, since this is the first time the belt has 
come this way for two hundred and eighty-seven 
years. 

The day broke with rain. Undaunted by the rain 
and cold weather, fistic fans thronged High Street 
and covered the roofs of the buildings around. Pro¬ 
moter Lord Fitz de la Mar was determined that 
nothing should interfere with the bout. Count Con- 
ingsby Nosegay was picked to referee the bout. 

At the first the betting odds had been heavily in 
favor of the giant, because of his huge size, and 
because he entered the arena with all the confidence 
usually characteristic of a champ. But after the 

( 43 ) 


i » 






sixth round the Hampton Kid looked like a sure card, 
and the odds suddenly shifted and about-faced. 
Referee Count Nosegay had much difficulty in the 
eighth and ninth rounds, when the Kid and the 
giant continually clinched. The giant tried to foul 
the Kid by using his great club, and the Kid some¬ 
times forgot himself, and rushed at the giant with 
his long spear. 

In only one round, the second, did things look 
hazy for the Kid. In this round the giant shot for¬ 
ward with a hard right to the Kid’s nose. He went 
down in a heap, but was on his feet again at the 
count of eight. 

In the fifth round some clever work was done. The 
giant was losing wind, owing to the Hampton Kid’s 
agility. In this round the giant thus strove hard 
for the solar plexus. With a feint at the Kid’s left 
jaw, he suddenly drove a right, straightforward. But 
the Kid quickly parried this thrust, and leaped to 
the side. The giant shot out lefts and Tights in 
quick succession. Now was the psychological mo¬ 
ment all in favor of the Kid. He planted a sharp 
right straight on the champ’s left eye. Whereat 
the ex-champ counted constellations till he reached 
the Pleiades, while down for the count of five. 

The tenth round was the beginning of the end. 
The Kid was going strong, and appeared to be as 
strong as ever. The mighty Ascupart was groggy, 
bleeding, often holding to the ropes, and trying to 
clinch. Cries of “Finish the job, Kid!” “Put him to 
sleep!” “Paralyze him!”—were heard everywhere. 
Quick as a flash, with unlooked-for energy, the giant 
stiffened for a new jab, when the Kid negotiated 
his famous right uppercut—the thing was over, and 
the' crowds began to disperse. 

The bout lasted exactly one hour and seven sec¬ 
onds, according to the watch of the official time¬ 
keeper, the Duke of Cricketford. The “Gate” re¬ 
ceipts were unusually heavy, five pounds, six shil¬ 
lings going to the new champ, and one pound, six 
shillings to the loser. The new champion will prob¬ 
ably divide his time between vaudeville engagements 
and the training of prospective fighters. However, 
he wants it understood that he is willing and ready 
to defend his title, and to take on all comers. 


( 44 ) 


’AMBLE OVER THE ’AMBLE 


Let’s ’amble down the ’Amble 
And ferry o’er the tide, 

Then amble up to ’Amble 
And at the “pub” abide. 

The rays of sun are falling 
O’er Netley’s crumbling walls— 

And the ferryman calls us thither, 

As the tide so gently falls. 

I say, let’s up to ’Amble 
And tarry there a spell, 

For ’Amble’s ale is “ripping,” 

And the Port we love so well. 

There’s Bass’s “Stout,” and Ginness, 

And “Scotch,” and rum thrown in; 

There’s Strong’s good ale from Romsey— 
There’s “Irish,” and there’s gin. 

For ’Amble lies before us— 

Beneath the evening star; 

And see, the boatman’s waiting 
Down at the lonely bar. 

Let’s ’amble down the ’Amble 
And ferry o’er the tide, 

Then amble up to ’Amble 
And at the “pub” abide. 


WHY IS A CASUAL? 


casual, adj. Occurring by chance; accidental; un¬ 
usual. —The Standard Dictionary.. 

A casual, in the Army, occurs; 

A casual always occurs by chance; 

A casual is indeed accidental; 

A casual is always unusual— 

That is, his station and his status 
May change and shift at any moment. 

Identity is lost, and he’s a wonder 
If he can keep in mind from day 
To day his outfit’s name; he may 


(45) 


i 





Forget his own name, even, and 
His officers? He never knows 
Their names, and scarcely ever sees them. 
His “messkit number” he recalls, 

For even a casual must eat. 

If his name comes early in the alphabet 
He’s a hard-worked soldier-out-of-luck, 

On whom the non-coms, pass the buck. 
Time for demobilization comes; 

Our casual has to hang around; 

He’s one of many other bucks, 

From Maine to California, 

Who wait because they’re casuals, 

And nothing more. Just accidents, 

About to happen. The odds and ends 
Of every outfit in the Army, 

Old Flotsam, Jetsam, gathered 
Together, shoved together, casual-like. 
Finally it occurs to him, by chance, 
Accidental, unusual, to get discharged. 
Hack home a friend walks up and asks, 
“Old man, what outfit were you in?” 

“It don’t occur to me just now; 

I happen to forget the name.” 


THE MEDICOS WON THE WAR 


Tune: Hinkey, dinkey, parlez-vous. 
(With Apologies) 

The Medicos bucked the battle line, 
Parlez-vous! 

The Medicos bucked the battle line, 
Parlez-vous! 

The Medicos bucked the battle line, 
Prescribing C. C.’s and iodine— 

Hinkey, dinkey, parlez-vous! 

The Medicos sent them over the Rhine, 
Parlez-vous! 

The Medicos sent them over the Rhine, 
Parlez-vous! 

The Medicos sent them over the Rhine, 
Took their souvenirs and drank the wine, 
Hinkey, dinkey, parlez-vous! 


(46) 




The Medicos knew the drill, all right, 
Parlez-vous! 

The Medicos knew the drill, all right, 
Parlez-vous! 

The Medicos knew the drill, all right, 

They said “Right face” for “Column right”! 
Hinkey, dinkey, parlez-vous! 


PAT HARL’S LETTER 


On learning of the projected “Siege of Sarisbury 

Court.” 

Owensboro, Ky., November 11, 1919. 

Oh, Jo! 

.The world is fortunate, that before 

the first anniversary of the end of the war came 
around, the greatest masterpiece of the war should 
be ready for the printer. My only fear is that you 
may have stolen some thunder from Milton, Shakes¬ 
peare, Whitman and others of that bunch in this 
new w r ork of yours, “The Siege of Sarisbury Court,” 
which I am sure is being awaited with eagerness; 
and which will be read with avidity in certain belli¬ 
cose circles of Kentucky, which have but lately 
beaten their hobnails into dancing pumps, and are, 
no doubt, finding successful in peace the same tac¬ 
tics which won for them so much fame in their 
conquest of England. I am sure you have produced 
one of the masterpieces of invective art on the late 
and lamented war—one which, had you not already 
so appropriately dedicated, I would suggest you dedi¬ 
cate to Walt Whitman. 

I shall read “The Siege” with all the care and de¬ 
corum the naration of such an important historic 
episode deserves. Frequently have I heard of that 
memorable siege: How those picked and doughty 
warriors advanced to the attack one hot July morn¬ 
ing, with all the ardor with which the Jews hurried 
to the promised land! And why should they not? 
Was not Sarisbury reputed to be overflowing with 
milk (how many cows were there?) and honey (of 
course, honey, for would not those Forty “Eunix” 
find honey even in the most barren wilds?) Now, if 
history be correct, there were more hills on the road 


(47) 




to Sarisbury than on the road to Jericho, and there 
was no Moses to strike the rock for water, and only 
one ass (a sergeant) to carry the burden of curses. 
Also have I heard how those “Eunix,” “sequestered 
by the sea,” as your friend Rush would say—turned 
themselves to rustic sports and gambols on the 
Green, in the intervals of rearing that great redoubt 
which was to hold them well in the trying days to 
come. 

Now there finally arose a schism, and the Forty 
were split asunder, as though they had never been a 
unit, and sent thither and yon to cry, “Let me be 
his orderly!” in the four corners of Albion; how 
some went to the far-off wars in France, and some 
languished at Morn Hill—where two were imprisoned 
—and some nearly fell into the sea at Paignton; and 
some fell among thorns at Portsmouth (as I have 
heard tell), from which they still bear scars; and 
others, still, found solitude at Hursley; how happy 
they all were at being called together again, albeit 
a little piqued to find that they were to become 
hewers of wood and drawers of water for their breth- 
ern who had remained at Court—who like all who 
remain at Court had now risen to high places; how 
carefully, however, their benevolent and paternal 
guardian, dear old Graves, tried with soft words 
and gentle manners to smoothe their feelings; how, 
in consequence, divers stubborn and stiff-necked ones 
of this hard-headed lot refused to “put out” any¬ 
thing; how, as time went on, those veterans of war, 
in their splendid isolation of mud and country grew 
so unbearably happy that there was no doing any¬ 
thing with them; how, finally, as a reward for honest 
merit, and earnest toil, some were selected to 
serve their country with the rear-guard in France. 
Ah, ’twas a famous victory, that Siege of Saris¬ 
bury! He that tells the story faithfully and well, 
deserves an honorable discharge and a Victory 
button. 

Sincerely, 

L. P. HARL. 


(48) 


“’BAN, ’BAN, CA-CALIBAN” 


No more dams I’ll make for fish; 

Nor fetch in firing at requiring; 

Nor scrape trencher, nor wash dish; 
'Ban, ’Ban Ca-Caliban 
Has a new master; get a new man. 
Freedom, hey-day, freedom! freedom! 
hey-day, freedom! 

—The Tempest. 


“’Ban, ’Ban, Ca-Caliban 

Has a new master, get a new man!” 

Buck, buck, O luckless buck, 

Get a new master, your time’s up! 

Now you’ve done your hitch in hell. 
Done your part and done it well! 

No more K. P., no more “ducks,” 

No more hobnails for the bucks; 

No more drilling, no more slum, 
Army life is on the bum! 

No more hiking, no more packs, 
Four-horse teams upon your backs! 

Now you’re back down on the farm— 
No more cooties nor “short-arm.” 

Drag your carcass to the shade, 

You are through with marmalade! 

Can the call for reveille— 

You’re a whate man, and you’re free; 
Maul the sergeant with a rail 
If he comes for that “detail.” 

Sleep your sleep and live at ease, 
You are done with Army grease; 

Done with M. P.’s, done with “brigs,” 
Done with brainless Army prigs. 

Yell your lungs out, yell like men, 
Civilization’s free again! 

Buck, buck, O luckless buck, 

You’re no longer out of luck! 

Get a new master, get a new man, 
You’re no longer Caliban! 


(49) 



HERE THEY ARE! 


Addams, Abe B. 

Adams, Charles C. 
Alder, Orville 
Alexander, June Gayle 
Allender, Harry B. 
Arnold, Capt. C. G. 
Asbury, Charles A 
Ashcraft. O. C. (Dec’d) 
Bailey, Lt. C. H. 

Baker, Grover 
Banks, Gabriel C. 
Barbee, James E. 
Barnett, George A. 
Barrow, Lt. ol. David, 
(Organized outfit) 
Bean, C. L. 

Bell, George S. 
Blankenship, L. G. 
Boaz, Robert A . 

Boaz, William G. 
Bonebrake, Ray 
Botts, Omar R. 
Boughton, Abram J. 
Boulware, Lt. J. P. 
Brackett, Wallace W. 
Bradshaw, C. W. 
Bronaugh, Forrest 
Bruce, Walter H. 
Bryant, Marshall T. 
Buchanan, Emil B. 
Bullock, Maj. W. O. 
Burch, Hiram P. 
Burton, Leland D. 
Burton, Orrin J. 

Byrd, Herbert E. 
Caldwell, Frederic B. 
Caldwell, Russell E. 
Cart, Nutter O. 

Castlen, Robert C. 
Chambers, Alvin L. 
Chaves, William C. 
Clark, Hunter 
Clay, Douglas K. 


Clemmons, Lt. W. P. 

Cole, Samuel H. 
Coleman, Capt. R. M. 
Combs, Josiah Henry 
Coons, William L. 
Corbin, Chester C. 
Cornn, Charles W. 
Craig, Capt. L. R. 
Cottrell, Harry R. 
Cumbus, F. P. 

Curtis, Charles M. 

Dale, William M. 
Davis, Lt. 

Davis, Richard W. 
Dawson, Andrew L. 
Dean, James C. 

Deputy, Erby C. 

Dick, Samuel S. 
Downing, John P. 
Dozier, Emmitt W. 
Drake, Ernest G. 

Dye, Eugene D. 

Early, Ouvier C. 
Eckley, Ishmael 
Fahey, John J. 
Faulkner, Forrest 
Faulkner, Ray H. 
Feeback, John K. 

Field, William G. 
Fithian, Capt. J. L. 
Fogg, Richard J. 
Foster, Richard W. 
Foushee, Clyde E. 
Foushee, Francis C. 
Fratman, Omar W. 
Frazier, Carl 
Freeman, George S. 

(Deceased) 
Gano, Sterling S. 

Garr, Maj. C. C. 
Garrett, John T. 
Gatewood, Wm. H., Jr. 
Gilbert, Ray H. 


(50) 



Gilmore, Thomas E. 
Ginocchio, Louis M. 
Goodwin, Roland C. 
Grant, Capt. H. L. 
Graves, George 
Gray, Allen E. 

Gray, Clarence R. 
Haddad, George A. 
Hagan, James A. 
Hager, Walter 
Haggin, Lt. Louis L. 
Hahn, Lt. A. G. 

Hail, Wade Ottis 
Hancock, John S. 
Hanes, Maj. G. S. 

Harl, Louis Patrick 
Harney, Clarence W. 
Harrison, Clyde D. 
Henderson, Henry B. 
Hill, Riley B. 

Houston, Albert L. 
Howard, Hugh F. 
Hughes, Lt. Col. L. S. 

(Comanding Officer) 
Humphreys, Wm. J. 
Hundley, Robert E. 
Hunt, Gordon C. 
Hunter, Hal 
Ingels, Julian A. 
Jefferson, Capt. C. M. 
Jefferson, Douglas N. 
Jenkins, William L. 
Jones, Earl T. 

Jones, Edward S. 
Joplin, George A. 
Joplin, Vaughan T. 
Jasper, Gaines 
Kane, Richard K. 
Kennedy, Capt. R. C. 
Kimbrough, Henry C. 
Kimbrough, Marion L. 
Kinnaird, Maj. Virgil G. 
Kirkpatrick, Russell 
Knapp, Lt. John 
Kuhn, Joseph C. 
Lambert, George 


Lancaster, Frank S. 
Lane, William N. 
Lassing, Coleman H. 
Ledridge, Edward W. 
Lee, Owen S. 

Leedy, John W. 
Lockhart, Capt. Robert 
Lovelace, Wayne 
Macrae, Harry M. 
Maloney, Henry 
Marchildon, Homer J. 
Marks, Capt. S. B. 
Marks, Lt. T. M. 

Marsh, John R. 
Marshall, Hubert 
McAdams, Oliver K. 
McClintock, John 
McClymonds, Lt. Col. 

J. T. 

McConnell, Jno. L. 
McCormick, John M. 

(Deceased) 
McCoy, Capt. F. C. 
McCullough, Charles 
McDougal, Edgar B. 
McGovern, Michael E. 
McKellar, Archibald 
McKenny, Garnett J. 
McKinley, Capt. David 
Milam, James W. 

Miller, George A. 
Minihan, William A. 
Minium, Charles L. 
Minor, Winfield H. 
Mongeon, William A. 
Montgomery, Bruce 
Moran, John H. 

Moren, Maj. J. J. 
Muller, Mortimer G. 
Murray, Charles W. 
Myers, Winston B. 

Neal, Burwell 
O’Brien, Anthony W. 
Parrigin, Lt. O. P. H. 
Pearson, Clarence A. 
Peters, John B. 


(51) 


Pirkey, Capt. M. E 
Porter, Ashby F. 
Porter, Roy S. 

Porter, Thomas E. 
Potts, Edward E. 
Powell, Benjamin C. 
Prather, Frank 
Prichard, Thomas 
Punch, Richard E. 
Raines, Harry B. 

Ready, Thomas J. 
Reddish, Maj. W. D. 
Reed, Cephas R. 

Reed, Lt. (Deceased) 
Reynolds, Goodson 
Reynolds, Wm. Bruce 
Rice, Lewis D. 

Rinder, Lt. Karl 
Rix, Elmer 
Roche, Henry W. 

Rodes, Frank B. 
Rogers, Elwood 
Rogers, Jack D. 

Roy, Leonard G. 

Rush, Lovell 
Ryan, Capt. J. A. 
Sager, George H. 
Sammis, Capt. G. Frank 
Sarvene, Jno. F. 

Scott, Harrison L. 
Seward, Glen M. 
Shipley, Carey S. 
Short, Hardin G. 
Shouse, Leonard, B. 
Shropshire, Grover 
Simpson, Maj. Virgil E. 
Skillman, Avery W. 
Sledd, Herbert T. 
Smedley, Percy W. 
Smith, Robert W. 
Snipes, Frank L. 
Snipes, Percy D. 
Snoddy, Leland 


Stephenson, Frank O. 
Stevens, Henry A. 
Stewart, Artie 
Stewart, James H. 
Stokes, Fay 
Stokes, James W. 
Stone, Andrew K. 
Stucky, Harry C. 

Swan, Ralph L. 

Taylor, Robert B. 
Taylor, Robert D. 
Taylor, Lt. S. T. 
Thomas, Marion C. 
Thompson, Alvin 
Thompson, Shelby W. 
Thornton, Charles A. 
Tileston, Capt. R. 

Todd, Demaree 
Tomlinson, R. H., Jr. 
Tucker, Roy J. 

Turner, John H. 
Upington, Theodore 
Van Meter, Samuel W. 
AValker, T. L., Jr. 
Ward, Will W. 

Watkins, Lt. 

Watson, Otto 
Whaley, Clarence N. 
White, Morris B. 

Wiley, Albert N. 

Wiley, Dawson 
Wilson, Ethelbert R. 
Wilson, Lt. George H. 
Wilson, Millard O. 
Wilson, Robert E. 

Wise, Thomas M. 
Womack, Gilman M. 
Woods, Baldwin 
Worthington, Scott M. 
Wyatt, Maj. W. S. 
Young, David W. 
Young, Leving P. 


(52) 




























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